"It must be a wonderful thing to be so sure that you love somebody."
–Toru, from Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
I WISH IT HAS A NAME, or at least I hope there are words to exactly define it—this encrypted feeling locked within an undecipherable riddle. It doesn’t feel like there are bugs inside my gut, no fluttering wings whatsoever. It’s confusing but elating at the same time. But I am sure of one thing: This is dangerous. My mind is 100 percent certain of this. But as it usually does, my heart begs to differ.
There is a calming sense of comfort that came with it, clawing down my walls. A creeping warm came over me like someone invisible is embracing me. I could feel my heart beat in an odd way; strings vibrating with every breath that cast haunting melodies in the dark. I stare into the blank ceiling in a reverie, silently praying to never come out of it. As I struggle to fan the flame from its dying embers, I feel like a man trying with all his might to kindle a candle light in the middle of a raging storm. The wind is just too strong.
I couldn’t help it. I want to be tempted by this happiness. I don’t want to think. It’s fascinating how it is capable of causing beautiful chaos in the austere monotony of my world. Suddenly, I see faded photographs of the past in a whole new light—vibrant and filled with colors. I just want to look at them and trip and fall completely but I am so cautious of my steps. I walk head down watching my feet. Someone had tipped the scales underneath me and I am anxious to know what will happen next. But I know that a choice has still to be made to make something actually happen. To make the choice is easy but sticking to the choice is hard.
Everything is so much simpler without this—simpler and cold. I am not sure if it’s a good thing. In some ways it is. But for someone who had lost hope, and then gained an ounce of it back without any warning out of thin air, it becomes a very scary thing to have. It means there is now something to lose. I am terrified because I know it will just lead me nowhere. But that is how it works. The inspiration will push me to tread its winding path despite the ominous consequences—an endless journey reeking with broken expectations. It feels like I am about to walk the thin line that separates the act of hoping from expecting-- a burdensome feat reminiscent of giving love without expecting anything in return. That’s the way it’s always going to be, isn’t it?
But there will be no such journey. I know myself this much. This maybe perhaps one of my greatest flaws, but it’s something that makes me who I am. Or maybe… just maybe—I don’t know myself as much I’d like to believe that I do. But ‘maybe’ is better than ‘no’ at this point. If that’s the case, then there may still be a sliver of chance for redemption…